


Moonlit Sonata

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bonding, Drama, Explicit Language, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Out of Character, Romance, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Slash sex, Suspense, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-01
Updated: 2009-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-30 12:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10162880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Branwen777s Challenge. AU sixth year. Harry is having bursts of Slytherin behavior, followed instantly by trips to Dumbledore's office that leave him shaken and confused. Draco, noticing, goes not to Voldemort, but to his son. HP/OC slash. Dark!Harry





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort, Albus Dumbledore, or any other character, thing, idea, etc. found in J.K. Rowling’s novels. I did not write this story to be any form of slander, nor do I make any profit from it.

Notes: Response to Branwen777’s challenge, and my first ever OC. Hmm.

 

Warnings: AU, slash, language, violence, and all other things that could possibly warrant an ‘M’ rating. 

The Insanity of Prologues for the Ill-Fated

1994

It wasn’t the best of lives to be born into. 

My name is Alyas Salazar Slytherin, though there was once a time when I was called Alyas Grindelwald Riddle. I was born October 31st, 1977 to a young and mildly sadistic woman by the name of Bellatrix Lestrange. I have been told that she crowed over my birth endlessly, passing me around and showing me off to any who happened to place themselves within her line of sight. My memories of this woman who has been called my mother, however, are dim and nearly nonexistent – a blur of dark and pale white standing above me with a twisted smile. The last I should have seen her was on my fourth birthday – the day my entire world went to Hell and my pedestal was so highly raised and shadowed.

To be the only Lestrange heir was one thing. To be the only living product of the breeding program of the Dark Lord was quite another. I was conceived and born with only the intent of continuation and stability running through my veins – if it were not for my father’s greed, I have no doubt I would have shared his name as well. But one does not share easily with Lord Voldemort, and in return Lord Voldemort does not share. Where my memories of my mother are weak, the ones of my father have never been. Only the knowledge of my looming destiny of being nothing more than a pawn. From the moment I could walk, I was sent to private lessons of words and ideas I could barely begin to comprehend – forced to master a wand who taunted my every effort to control it. I was a prince, the Prince, and I seemed to be the only one suffering for the title.

October 31st, 1981 was supposed to be the day that we would become history, or so I’ve been told. But it was the night that my father was felled by his own hand, forced to bow down to the power of an infant Harry Potter, and my mother put away for her own murderous insanity. The night that should have sealed my fate became the day of loose liberation. My father was gone, presumed dead, my mother locked within Hell for all eternity. 

For eleven years, I was raised by this follower and that – strong, cowardly witches and wizards who, after betraying their cause, convinced themselves that raising and training me would return them to the Lord’s good graces. In result, I am uneven and battered. I am both right and wrong, black and white, perfect and flawed.

Light and Dark.

Tucked away safely in the everlasting disguise of a relative I’ll never be, up so high without someone higher to control me. I find that, in my ever-confused mind, I owe my very being to the child called Harry Potter.

There have been rumors circulating, recently, on my father’s imminent return into the land of the physical beings. Stronger than the ones of the years before, more excited – the arrival of a rodent into the home of my current residence has my attention. 

So drastically changed and free, what will my father think of me now?

.T.

1996

My life isn’t the best to be lived.

My name is Harry James Potter, though there was once a time when I was called “Boy”, “Freak”, and “Unwanted”, and to them I feel more connected. My life, from my first memory and from the hazes of my mind, has been nothing but pain and turmoil and hopelessness and need. Even when my shoulders are light and my face is a smile of happiness, I can never quite shake the feeling that slowly, bitterly, I’m dying.

I think I’ve tried to do something to change my unfortunate circumstances. It’s entirely a possibility that I’ve gone the Muggle way about it and taken a knife or two to my wrist, but every time I try to recall doing such a thing the memories are fuzzy and sharply painful. If I look closely, though, I can see thin, pink lines traveling up and across both wrists. Obviously, I must have tried something.

I don’t know why I’m sitting where I am. All I know is that a part of me – a very strong part – is furious and desperate to escape, and that the part I recognize as myself is extremely, extremely tired. I find myself yearning to be within a soothing, tight embrace – I picture a sea of red hair and eyes emerald to match my own staring down at me in adoration. Soft voices whispering to me that it’s alright. 

A weathered hand on my arm, rubbing it in reassurance, telling me that I’m okay, and that I’ll feel better in a moment.

Promises. Familiar promises. Words I’ve heard before, words that have been broken. 

“No,” the angry part of me hisses in a slur. My body shakes as the gentle hand suddenly grabs my wrist in a vice grip. I find myself sinking, lower and lower, the calls of endless obsidian a siren to my ears. I know that there is a battle of tongues raging, but that I am no longer needed. That I was never truly needed, that I never existed. 

“Let me go, Dumbledore.” The words that leave my mouth are violent, venomous in their intentions. Oh, yes. Please let me go. Let me return to the eternal abyss you pulled me from – let me rest. I sink further, almost there. Perhaps this time I’ll make it. This time, more adamant than the last. Perhaps the façade can slip away, and the charade can sleep whilst the hidden lives.

But then I feel it, the burning current of crystal liquid starts to engulf me, it’s shards of vicious glass piercing my skin and pulling me forward. A scream erupts from my lips – a scream of horror and denial from us both. No! Please, please just let me go. Please! Not again! The other passes me, pulled down to the darkness I had been so eagerly reaching for, pleading for my help. Help? How can I? Help me!

Suddenly, I’m staring into familiar blue eyes, and I have no clue as to why I’m back in the Headmaster’s office, or why he’s holding my arm so tightly, or why I feel as though I’ve just lost something vitally important, and not for the first time.

“Professor?” I whimper in confusion – my head feels like it’s on fire. The grip is released instantly, and a small, sympathetic smile slips onto Dumbledore’s face.

“Just another episode, Harry,” he assures me. “But you’re fine now, I gave you your potion. Of course, I’d feel better if you stayed in the Hospital Wing tonight, as usual, just to be sure. Your friends are still there, so you shouldn’t be too lonely.”

I nod, a blush staining my cheeks at the mention of another episode, and follow timidly as he directs me to the door. Another, there had been so many recently. Passing out, unable to recall what I had done during that time. Would they never end?

My chest ached nauseatingly at the notion.

To be continued.

So, does it make sense as to why I called this “The Insanity of the Prologues for the Ill-Fated”? x3

The entire story won’t be written like this – I dare say I’d get confused. No spoilers for the next chapter – maybe you’ll just have to beg Branwen for a copy of her challenge, since she removed it from her profile.

Later,

Me


End file.
